


A Benediction

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: Hell, Paved with Priests' Skulls [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blasphemy, Confessional Sex, M/M, monastery AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is some difficult maneuvering, but Grantaire scrambles into Enjolras’ lap and curls his fingers in his hair, thumbs brushing against his ears. Enjolras is less hasty, but wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. His tongue traces around Grantaire’s lips and then inside, around his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and Grantaire feels somewhat precious for perhaps the first time in his life. The sound of their breathing seems louder in the enclosed space of the confessional, right where God can hear them join together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Benediction

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last part! I hope you all have enjoyed this series as much as I've loved writing it.

Grantaire feels lighter than he used to, and that is something.

Summer heat is oppressive, and after his brief walks in the monastery garden, he returns to his dormitory with red cheeks and a redder nose that sting with every change in expression. It feels _alright_ , somehow, allowing the outside world to touch him in this nearly harmless way. He is still happiest in the library, late at night, and that will never change. Flecks of gold and blue paints make their home inside his fingernails and cuticles once more, now that he has returned to his work.

He goes to confession, on occasion, and sometimes Mass. The Prior’s sermons will always haunt him, he thinks, and perhaps more than ever now, having been so close to hell itself already. A blotchy, violet scar on his neck, to remind him of its burning. He fears it more as more time passes, knowing that he has done so little to resist temptation.

( _And deliver us from evil_.

Grantaire wonders if he is the evil one, and Enjolras’ prayers against him simply stopped working.

But Enjolras has God’s ear, he remembers, and surely no amount of sin will change that. While Grantaire may not believe in God or Christ, Enjolras does, and that in turn gives him some small amount of faith to cling to and leaves splinters in his skin.)

Sacramental wine helps to dull sharp edges, though he indulges in it less frequently. Enjolras debates theology with him, even more often than before Grantaire took ill, and his nostrils flare whenever Grantaire’s words stumble too clumsily between them, and he dislikes the way Grantaire tastes of wine, lips and mouth red and wanting with it before they’ve even touched.

_Be serious_ , Enjolras had told him.

_I am wild_ , Grantaire replied, and laughed, meaning to tease the other man and nothing more. Although that was an evening they did not come together, later, and Enjolras had left him alone in the library without even clasping his hand in a quiet _good night_.

Through the deluge of days that ought to be identical in everything but which saint they happen to be celebrating, Grantaire finds bursts of light and almost-smiles, and demons do not claw so furiously at his insides as they used to.

Nightmares come less often, visions of smoke and blood and teeth that tear into his flesh with whispers of sodomy and damnation and _sin_. Less often, but they haven’t abandoned him entirely. He wakes, shivering, with tears across his cheeks, and his tiny room feels too open, too welcoming for the demons that seek him there.

(A circle of warm arms might welcome him elsewhere, but Grantaire still does not know how to ask for that, and he would not like to beg.)

He pulls his cowl over his head as he slips into the hallway. Vespers have been over for awhile now, and his brothers have likely all gone to bed. The side-chapel is empty and most of the candles have been put out, save for a few burned almost to stubs. He can see spots of candle wax glinting on the floor.

The confessional door creaks as he pulls it open as gently as he can, although from here and at night, the rest of his brothers are far enough away so as not to hear it anyway. This is the side he is more used to, where he tells the Abbot his sins and receives penance and absolution in return. The close walls feel safe, even with the crucifix glaring down at him--even in the dark, he can feel its gaze. Grantaire curls up on the small bench, wraps his arms around his knees, and tries for awhile not to think.

He has not yet drifted into sleep when the door opens again. Grantaire does not need to open his eyes and squint through the darkness to know who it is, and shifts slightly to the side to allow him room to crowd into the small space.

“I was looking for you,” Enjolras murmurs, as he takes a seat beside Grantaire. He has candlestick with him--Grantaire can see the light flickering from behind his eyelids--and he sets it on the floor. “Are you well?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Grantaire rolls his head to the side and opens his eyes to see Enjolras peering down at him, brow furrowed and lips pursed, and skin appearing orange and yellow in the candlelight. “What need do you have of me that you have found me here?”

“No _need_ ,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire feels a soothing hand on his back. “I simply wished to--”

Enjolras stops abruptly, and they both know why. They have undiscussed limits--even speaking of their sinful acts is allowable, but actual affection--that is something different, more terrifying.

“Are you well?” he asks again.

“Yes.” Grantaire’s answer is the same. “I only could not sleep.”

“We could--” Enjolras swallows. “We could go to my room, or I could go to yours, if you would like that.”

“Do you have new ideas against the papacy that you must express aloud before putting them to paper?” Grantaire asks, and he is not bitter or angry. Only teasing, the corners of his mouth upturned so that Enjolras does not mistake it.

“Perhaps tomorrow, after vespers. Do my ideals for a Church free of corruption, amuse you?” But Enjolras is smiling, too, and it removes the edge from his barbed words.

“Hm? And what of us?” And Grantaire cannot help it--he needs to say it, he has fought for too long not to. “Surely we are two of those wicked clergyman, who must be pulled as thorns from the side of the Holy Church?”

(He wishes he had numbed himself with wine.)

“ _Love does no harm to its neighbor. Therefore love is the fulfillment of the law,_ ” Enjolras whispers, so quiet that even though they are so close to one another, Grantaire can hardly hear it. He recognizes the quote from the book of Romans.

“ _But sexual immorality and all impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints_ ,” Grantaire returns, but with no passion behind his statement.

“Ephesians,” Enjolras acknowledges, and nods. His hand on Grantaire’s back has stopped its calming motion, and he worries his lower lip between his teeth as he thinks. Silence, and then: “ _Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins_.”

For several moments, Grantaire can only _look_ at him.

Enjolras’ hand on his back turns into a fist, grabbing his tunic and hauling him towards him in a close embrace. Grantaire breathes hard against his neck, as if he is struggling for air or words or something else, but then his arms close tight around him, too, and their lips meet in a tender sort of kiss, Enjolras nipping lightly at Grantaire’s lower lip until his mouth opens and they slide more easily against one another.

It is some difficult maneuvering, but Grantaire scrambles into Enjolras’ lap and curls his fingers in his hair, thumbs brushing against his ears. Enjolras is less hasty, but wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. His tongue traces around Grantaire’s lips and then inside, around his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and Grantaire feels somewhat precious for perhaps the first time in his life. The sound of their breathing seems louder in the enclosed space of the confessional, right where God can hear them join together.

Enjolras does not ask for forgiveness when he begins to ruck up Grantaire’s robe, so that the other man may more easily straddle his lap, bare legs curled up on either side of Enjolras’ thighs. He bucks upwards, once, and Grantaire tugs harder on his hair. Robe up haphazardly around Grantaire’s waist, Enjolras rests his hands on his lower back, and when he occasionally palms his buttocks through thin underclothes, Grantaire moans and grinds down against him. Through layers of fabric, Enjolras can feel Grantaire hard against his stomach and between his legs, and Enjolras can barely resist his desire to rut against him until they both reach climax.

It would be rushed and dirty, as they almost always are.

Instead he pushes carefully against Grantaire’s shoulders and their mouths part--unhappily--Grantaire seems confused but he obeys, stumbling to his feet. His tunic falls back down around his legs in wrinkles. 

“Should we go to your room?” Grantaire asks. His cheeks are flushed, and his face and neck shine with sweat. Enjolras imagines he appears much the same.

He shakes his head. “Here.”

Enjolras stands then, too, and begins to shuck off his too-hot garments. Grantaire raises his eyebrows, but does the same, and they are careful not to hit one another in the tiny space. Somewhere along the way the candle he had brought goes out, and that, Enjolras considers in the back of his mind--the part of his mind that isn’t consumed with exploring the planes of Grantaire’s chest in the total darkness--is a _good thing_ , because their clothing is tangled up around their feet and dry wool might catch fire too easily.

Eventually Grantaire’s eyes adjust to the lack of light, and he can see the outline of Enjolras--Enjolras running hands along his chest and stomach and hips but carefully avoiding his cock, treating Grantaire like some sort of statue, or relic to be valued.

_Valued_ \--and that is new.

(He is not worthy of that.)

Grantaire pushes Enjolras against the wall, firm but not hard enough to hurt him. He mouths greedily at his neck, his collarbone, and his tongue swirls around each of his nipples in turn. Now Enjolras is the one to fist his hands in Grantaire’s hair, and gasp at the pleasure of Grantaire’s attentions. Their cocks move together between them, and Enjolras shudders with every shift in movement. Likewise, Grantaire squirms against him. He pulls away for a moment, fingers digging hard into one of Enjolras’ hips. He spits into his hand and slicks himself, his thumb pausing at his head to use the precome, there, too. Brings his hand to his mouth again, spits, and moves toward Enjolras.

Enjolras shakes his head before he can stop himself, grabs Grantaire’s wrist.

“N--no. I--”

Grantaire cannot get close enough to read his expression until their foreheads press together, and Enjolras exhales against him, “I want you to--”

But he cannot find the words, and so he hitches up a leg around Grantaire’s hips, instead.

Understanding dawns, and Grantaire stares at him, open-mouthed.

“Are you sure? It could hurt. I wouldn’t want to--”

Enjolras kisses him silent, while his leg around Grantaire’s waist urges him closer.

Grantaire breaks the kiss, this time, and Enjolras watches as he slides two fingers in his own mouth, closes his eyes, and begins to suck on them, imagining his tongue swiping up and down their length, soaking them in saliva to ease their passage. A minute later, one of them presses against his entrance, and he is grateful that Grantaire and the wall are both there to keep him upright.

“Relax,” Grantaire whispers into Enjolras’ ear.

He index finger circles Enjolras and slowly pushes in, and he listens to Enjolras produce a strangled sound from the back of his throat. A pause, then, until Enjolras swallows and nods and shifts his hips, slightly, in encouragement to continue. As he sinks his finger in deeper, he can feel his cock grow even harder.

So tight--so hot--

When he curls his finger, Enjolras nearly _jumps_ , and Grantaire cannot suppress a smirk.

“Is that what it feels like--when I--?” Enjolras gasps.

Grantaire decides that it is time to add another finger, and so he does, even slower this time, watching Enjolras’ face for any sign of pain. He winces, once, but forces out between gritted teeth: “ _Don’t stop_.”

He begins to move his fingers in earnest, alternating between thrusting and and twisting and every now and then, a slight bit of stretching. Patient enough to be sure that he pays close attention to that place which makes Enjolras writhe against him and moan into his shoulder. Grantaire knows he will not last long, once he is inside him truly, and so he is thorough now, until Enjolras is left nearly sobbing, and thrusting down onto Grantaire’s fingers wantonly. Then he slides his fingers out of him, and is satisfied by the almost stricken look on Enjolras’ face.

“Turn around, and brace yourself against the wall,” he tells him. “It will make this easier for you, I pray.”

Enjolras does, and it feels odd for Grantaire to be in control of one of their encounters, it feels _different_ , but good all the same to see and feel how eager Enjolras is for him. They are pressed together in the small wooden room, back to front, and Grantaire slicks his cock with another generous amount of spit.

“Do you permit it?” he asks. He wants to be sure of this, and not break the fragile thing they have between them beyond repair.

In response, Enjolras pushes back against the wall and arches his back, bucking his hips back against Grantaire.

Grantaire swallows back his nervousness, and enters Enjolras slowly, so slowly, and _oh he never knew it felt like this_. Enjolras’ body seems hesitant to take him, and Enjolras himself is biting down hard on Grantaire’s forearm from where he has wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ chest and shoulders, but he makes no sound of protest. When he is buried in Enjolras in his entirely, he stops, and waits, despite his inclination otherwise. He places a few careful kisses along Enjolras’ neck, and he shifts his hands until one grips Enjolras’ hip, and the other is curled around his cock. This last makes Enjolras groan and move impatiently.

“Please,” is a ragged gasp, and Grantaire acquiesces. 

He begins to thrust as gently as he can, moving in rhythm with his hand around Enjolras.

“ _Oh,_ Enjolras,” he grunts, because he is so tight and grasping around him, and he licks and bites Enjolras’ shoulder.

“You feel--” Enjolras’ words are cut off in a sharp moan as Grantaire moves faster, and Enjolras pushes back against him. His hand begins stroking Enjolras quicker, too, and Enjolras nearly collapses into the wall as he comes with a cry of _Ohgodjesuschristfuck._

It’s more than enough to send Grantaire over the edge as well, the feeling of Enjolras closed tight around him like a vice in the midst of his orgasm, and he groans into his neck.

They regain their breath together, as Grantaire withdraws from him, wraps his arms around his waist. Enjolras’ shoulder steadies him, as he rests his head upon it.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, and if Grantaire wants to know what for, he does not dare to ask.

Without speaking, they dress, and become the dutiful servants of God once more.

The crucifix on the wall does not pin Grantaire with judgement, for now.

When Enjolras kisses him outside the door to his dormitory, a silent good night, to Grantaire it feels like some sort of benediction, and perhaps in time again he may feel so blessed by God as he does then.


End file.
